Fireworks
by Aurora West
Summary: The fifth anniversary of Voldemort's death was overcast and grey, marked by frequent bursts of cold, hard rain, and all Angelina Johnson could think about was that she had not seen Fred Weasley in five years.  DH spoilers.  [GeorgeAngelina]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" is the property of JK Rowling.

1

"Calling out somebody save me, I feel like I'm fading away; am I gone?" -- Sara Bareilles, "City"

The fifth anniversary of Voldemort's death was overcast and grey, marked by frequent bursts of cold, hard rain. It was a day that, in the past few years, had become something of a national holiday, with raucous parties and celebratory gatherings held long into the night. Pubs and restaurants were packed with joyful, and usually drunk, witches and wizards, and revelers filled the streets long into the night. Even with the rain, bright, crackling fireworks were set off nearly constantly, flashing colours over Diagon Alley.

Angelina Johnson did not attend these parties. She had once, with Alicia and Oliver Wood, but it had been a disaster of epic proportions that had convinced her that her over-indulgence of alcohol was best done alone. Or at least in the company of strangers. In the last five years, she'd spent quite a bit of time in the company of strangers. Other people for whom, like her, the day was marred by the loss of loved ones.

She twisted the ring on her left hand idly, glad, at least, that she was sober today. It was the first time this day had rolled around that she hadn't been totally pissed. Not that she hadn't gone out -- it was too painful being in her flat alone, thinking that she hadn't seen Fred Weasley in five years. Missing him made her feel sixty, rather than twenty-five, and it was the thought of all those years stretching before her, bleak and empty, that drove her to a quiet pub for a pint. It helped her to be surrounded by people, to know that life _did_ go on, that _her_ life could go on, and all she needed was the resolve to make it. She hadn't succeeded yet, though she knew things were better than they had been. 'Course, it would be hard for things to be worse.

"Hey," a man off to her left said suddenly, "you're that Quidditch player. Ballycastle Bats, right?"

She glanced at him, splaying her hands on the table, hoping he'd see her ring and take the hint. "Yeah," she answered perfunctorily, promptly returning to her thoughts. Her friends didn't know what to do with her anymore. They'd managed to stop her self-destructing -- barely -- but she could tell they didn't really know how to treat her. Except Alicia, who was, Angelina sometimes thought, the only reason she'd made it this far. Alicia didn't pry or make her feel ashamed of her life (not that she needed anyone to make her feel ashamed, as she was quite capable of feeling that way on her own). Of course, she'd been privy to the darkest period of Angelina's life, and it wasn't out of the question that Alicia was just concerned for her delicate mental state.

"Can I buy you a drink?" It was the man sitting at the table next to her again.

"No, thanks," she answered, still not really paying attention to him.

To her intense annoyance, he stood up and sat down again, this time at _her_ table. "You're not out celebrating, either?"

"Obviously not," she replied, not bothering to smile. Or to be polite, for that matter. For the first time, she took a better look at him. He was older than her and seemed to have broken his nose (or had it broken, more likely), possibly on more than one occasion. She wished he'd just leave her alone. There was only one person whose presence she'd welcome right at that moment, and unless she held a séance, he wouldn't be turning up.

"Do you mind me asking why not?"

Angelina sighed a little. "I do, in fact." So sod off, she wanted to add.

He either didn't care or hadn't even really heard her. "Don't care for the crowds, meself. Makes me claustrophobic. Anyway, all the interesting types hang about these sorts of places."

No, Angelina wanted to say, all the bereft and anti-social types hung about these sorts of places. "Hm," she said noncommittally. Playing Quidditch professionally was a dream come true for her, and often these days she used training to keep herself sane, but it did tend to attract these types of people every so often. Alicia had said that there was a certain type of man that liked the challenge of pursuing a woman like her, and when Angelina had demanded to know what that meant, Oliver had supplied, "Surly." In response, she had threatened to jinx him, and he said, "That just proves my point, doesn't it?"

Her unwanted companion didn't even seem to notice her surliness (which she thought was at a level that would make even Oliver proud) and was eyeing her in a way she didn't like. "Sure I can't buy you a drink?"

She pressed her lips together before replying, "Quite sure." Maybe it would be better to go home and wallow in misery there. She might be alone with her thoughts, but she'd also remove herself from the presence of this man.

When she stood up, the man actually looked surprised. "Leaving already?"

"Yes," she said shortly. As an afterthought, she added, in rather the same curt tone (but it was the thought that counted, after all), "Have a nice night."

"I will," he called to her back as she pushed open the door and walked outside into a driving rain. With a shiver, she pulled her sweatshirt closer around her. As she passed happy groups of people, she couldn't help but feel more detached than ever before from the Wizarding world. It was all she'd ever known, but often she felt...removed. Like she was fading, as a witch and as a person. She dreaded the day she became too old to play Quidditch, because it was the one thing that kept her anchored and gave her something to work for and fill her time with. Without it, she might really just drift off into her own little monochrome world -- her small flat, her fading memories, her already exasperated friends.

Ahead, she spotted a party that had spilled out of a pub and into the street, and to avoid the throng of people, she ducked into an alley that she knew cut through. Lost in thought, she didn't notice the figure standing in her path until she was practically on top of him.

"Hello again," he said, and she started as she recognised the man from the pub.

"You," she said, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice. She was an excellent witch, she could handle one twat following her.

"Let me walk you home."

"I don't think so," she snapped, reaching back to pull her wand out of the waist of her jeans.

"Right." His voice suddenly grew harder. "All I need is a bit of dosh, then. Gimme your handbag and that's all it has to be. Your choice."

"Piss off," she snarled, then drew her wand out and held it ready.

The man gave her a nasty smile, and before she had a chance to do anything, a spell hit her from behind. As she fell to the ground, unable to move or speak and moments from blacking out, she saw several shadowy forms closing in around her. And then there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

2

"I've watched you slowly winding down for years; you can't keep on like this; now is as bad a time as any" -- Imogen Heap, "Speeding Cars"

Angelina swam slowly to consciousness through a dark tunnel, drawn by the comforting sounds of tea being prepared. For several minutes, she let herself drift in blackness, listening to the soft clattering from the kitchen and wrapped in warm blankets. Had the whole evening been a bad dream? She was content to think so.

As she woke up further, though, it abruptly occurred to her that if she was in her bed, then there should most definitely _not_ have been anyone else in her flat to be making tea.

Suddenly fully awake, she sat bolt upright, every muscle in her body tensed to spring out of bed, and promptly slammed her head against the headboard with a loud _crack!_

Through profusely watering eyes, she registered a vague figure appear in her doorway, face completely in shadow. "Are you alright?" it -- he -- asked in a concerned voice, and she started, nearly hitting her head again. He flicked on a lamp and approached her. In the dim light, she could see that she had, indeed, identified her mysterious house guest by his voice.

There was something bizarre about seeing George Weasley standing in her flat. They hadn't seen each other -- up close like this -- in years, and, more importantly, his twin had been here, often, in the months before he'd died. Not that Angelina would ever have mistaken George for Fred, in their younger days or now. Especially not now. Missing ear aside, George had always had a quieter look about him, both in his eyes and in his smile. And it was clear that the last five years had taken their toll on him -- there was a drawn sadness on his face, and something else, a guardedness, lurking just below the surface of his features.

Well, she thought guiltily, she hadn't been kind to him at all since Fred's death. By all rights he should have been the person she sought out who would understand her grief, but instead she'd cut him out of her life, unable to stomach her own thoughts when she was around him. It had been so hard not to think of him only as Fred's brother, Fred's twin, Fred's double. And then there had been that awful, ghastly night, four years ago, that she had seen him in the Leaky Cauldron and found out what depths she could sink to. _That_ was the last time they'd spoken, and she had never forgotten the look on his face as she'd left his flat. It had made her hate herself, not just for being so stupid that she'd actually thought she could somehow replace Fred with George, but because she had seen -- had _felt_ -- how much she had hurt him, when there was no one in the world who deserved that pain less.

She would have expected to see dislike on his face, but all she could detect was concern. "You hit your head when you fell," he said hesitantly. "How do you feel?"

Angelina realised she was gaping and promptly closed her mouth. Then, she said, "George, I...how is it that you're...here?"

George smiled at her, and for some reason, it was one of the most wonderful things she'd ever seen. He _could_ still smile, then, he wasn't utterly destroyed. He could look at her and manage to seem happy. "I suppose I happened to be in the right place at the right time."

Putting a hand to her head and feeling the lump there gingerly, she said, "I didn't dream it, then."

"Being set upon by three twats in an alley?" George asked, raising an eyebrow. When she nodded, he told her, "Definitely not."

She looked at him doubtfully. "And you were just...there?"

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, he agreed, "I was just there." With a hesitant pause, he said, "I didn't want to bother you, but I'd seen you coming towards me. Then you went down that alley and I wouldn't've thought anything else of it, except two blokes followed you in, and --" He stopped abruptly and Angelina saw, to her surprise and amusement, that he'd turned faintly red. Never took much with the Weasleys.

"What?" she asked curiously.

George gave her a somewhat self-deprecating smile. "Well, I suppose...and if you must, you can laugh at me, that I felt a bit...er...protective of you."

She didn't laugh. For just a second, she felt a hard lump rise in her throat, but she quickly swallowed it. "I guess I owe you my gratitude."

"You don't owe me anything, Angelina," George replied seriously. "I'm just glad I was so suspicious. If I hadn't followed them and something had happened to you..."

When he trailed off, the suggestion of his unspoken admission (he never would have forgiven himself? Would he really feel that way?) hanging in the air, the two of them stared at each other for a long moment. Angelina was again struck by how odd it was that he should be standing in her home. And it was good to see him, she surprised herself by thinking. Fred may have been the Weasley twin that she'd been in love with, but they were a bit of a package deal, and George had always been one of her best friends. Before, of course. It was always _before_. Her life was forever split into two halves, and there was nothing about this half that she liked.

Except, maybe, that George was here. And that he'd felt protective of her.

Just as she thought this, he seemed to remember something, and he said, "I was making you tea."

"Yes, you're being very kind to me. Let me be a decent hostess and get you something."

"No." He gave her a stern look and said, "You very well may have a concussion. Just stay right there." Quickly, he exited the room, and Angelina remained tucked into her bed, a bemused expression on her face. Within a few minutes, George returned, carrying a steaming mug. He handed it to her and backed away, saying apologetically, "That was all the tea I could find."

"That's all I've got, actually. Thank you."

He leaned against the wall, and she almost asked him to sit down. Except the only place to sit in her bedroom was her bed, and that was much too awkward. "You haven't told me how you're feeling yet," he remarked with a wry smile. "Should I take that as a bad sign?"

She couldn't help but return the smile. "No. I'm pretty sure my head's fine."

Just for a second, a knowing look flitted into his eyes. 'My head's fine,' she'd said, and he'd understood from that that it might be the only thing about her that was. She hadn't meant that to come out. How perfectly lovely of her to burden George with _that_ knowledge. Though, come to think of it, he must already have been fully aware of it. "How are you, otherwise?" he asked gently.

Their eyes met again before she shrugged and looked away. "I'm here," she said, and she could tell he understood what she meant.

There was another long silence between them, and then George asked hesitantly, "So...do you want me to go, then? If you're alright?"

'Yes,' she almost said, 'I don't trust myself around you. You know what happened last time.' Instead, she found herself replying, "You don't have to. Unless you'd like to, of course..."

"Well..." He looked torn for a moment, but he studied her and seemed to find something in her face that caused him to reach a decision. "If no one else is coming, then sure."

"Who else would be coming?" she asked blankly.

Pointing at her left hand, he said, "You've got a wedding ring on."

"Oh!" Maybe she _did_ have a concussion. She was certainly acting as though she'd sustained brain damage. "Right. No, no one's coming." As an afterthought, she added, "I'm not married anymore." She waited for a reaction from him, for the flash of scorn and surprise that usually accompanied this confession. It wasn't something that any of her old classmates had expected -- Angelina Johnson, star Quidditch player and excellent student, was not the girl anyone had expected to have been married and divorced by twenty-five. Of course, she wasn't that girl anymore. Not at all.

George didn't look disdainful, though, not even for a split second. He _did_ look a little shocked and embarrassed as he said, "I didn't know."

Glancing down at the ring, she said, "Yeah, well, I asked Alicia to keep it quiet. It's not exactly something I'm proud of. Marrying for all the wrong reasons, you know."

She wasn't sure he did, but he nodded, then asked in what was almost a timid tone, "D'you mind me asking why you wear the ring, then?"

"The theory is that men will leave me alone if they think I'm married."

"That work?"

"Sometimes." She snorted bitterly. "Not tonight. Though, to be fair, I'm not sure that bloke was ever interested in having a romantic coffee with me."

He ducked his head and laughed a little, and for some reason, that caused Angelina to say in a rush, "You should sit down," tucking her legs under herself to give him as much space as possible. He seemed surprised at the offer, but after a moment, he sat, carefully keeping his distance. She did a mental check as he got comfortable -- did she know this was George? Was she aware that this wasn't Fred that had popped in? Yes to both; she was still in her right mind, at least. For now.

George crossed his legs and tilted his head at her, a serious expression on his face. Just as it began to make her slightly uncomfortable, he asked, "How are you? Really?"

"Oh." She laughed a little humourlessly. "You don't want to know. It's not exactly pleasant conversation."

He quirked an eyebrow. "No one knows that better than me."

"How are _you_?" she asked, rather than answer him. Next to him, her pain felt almost silly. Maudlin. George, after all, had lost so much more.

Again, he seemed to have some inkling of what was running through her head, but unexpectedly, he appeared to give the question some consideration before meeting her eyes and replying, "Better than I was. It's...I dunno. Still hard."

"Yeah," she agreed quietly.

George's gaze grew a little distant. "Some days I think I'm getting used to it, you know? I don't turn and expect Fred to be there to finish my sentences _every _time I pause."

"And that scares you." The words slipped out without her meaning them to, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, George, I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"

But she didn't get the chance to finish stuttering out an apology, because she suddenly found herself caught up in a crushing hug. For one petrifying second, she froze, remembering the last time he'd held her. This was different, though, everything about it, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled, she thought with a smile, like rain and fireworks and something else that she couldn't put a name to, something indefinably _George_.

"I've missed you, Ange," he mumbled, his nose pressing into the side of her head and his mouth near her ear. He left everything else unsaid, but she felt it in the tightness of his embrace -- they were the two people closest to Fred, and they had pushed each other away and hurt each other, and right now that just felt stupid.

"I've missed you too," she mumbled back, though it was so muffled against his shirt that she wasn't sure he was even able to understand her.

They remained that way for a long time, their arms tangled together awkwardly and neither of them caring. Angelina couldn't remember the last time she had felt so...so...well, at peace, as silly as it sounded. When it came down to it, she knew they were just two desperate, lonely people, finding comfort in this moment simply by clinging to each other. Tomorrow, probably, they would be strangers again, but she didn't care.

Finally, with one last squeeze, George drew away from her. Giving her a wry smile, he said, "Didn't mean to jump you like that."

"No, it's fine." The warm glow was fading, but it was there -- had been there -- for once. She hadn't felt anything like it for...a long time.

"Well." He cleared his throat and Angelina felt something slip away. Whatever had allowed them to achieve that intimacy was gone, and the mood in the flat shifted almost imperceptibly to awkwardness. "I suppose I should probably let you sleep."

"Yeah," she agreed, avoiding his eyes. "I've got training tomorrow."

"Right." There was a pregnant pause, as though he was on the verge of saying something else, but it too dropped away, and he just gave a tiny shake of his head. "I'll see you, then."

"Yeah, bye." He disappeared around the corner, but Angelina felt a sharp panic that she had somehow shown herself ungrateful, or just not grateful enough, and she suddenly called, "George?" Instantly, he was there, framed in the doorway by soft light. No words came, though, so she just said again, "Thanks," hoping that was sufficient.

He flashed a grin at her. It was laced with regret, but it was a grin, nonetheless. "Somebody's still got to keep those Bludgers away from you, right?"

She had to blink quickly against the sudden sting in her eyes as she nodded, and within a minute or two, the front door clicked open, then shut quietly.

Well. Who knew five years on could look so different by the end of the night?


	3. Chapter 3

3

"Pull me out from inside; I am folded and unfolded and unfolding" -- Natalie Walker, "Colorblind"

It was while Angelina was changing out of her Quidditch robes the following day that she abruptly remembered she was supposed to be eating dinner with Alicia and Oliver in approximately ten minutes. She swore loudly, causing her teammate and fellow Chaser, Aodheen Smythe, to look over at her in bemusement.

Making a face, Angelina said by way of explanation, "I'm neglecting my social obligations."

Aodheen grinned. "Och, Johnson, that's you, isn't it?"

Angelina sighed melodramatically. "I have so _many_, you know, I find it difficult to recall all of them."

Laughing, Aodheen said, "See you tomorrow. Try not to offend all your friends in one night, yeah?"

"I'll certainly try." She waved to Aodheen as the other woman slammed her locker shut and left.

She thought the team had probably noticed that she seemed tired during practice, but hadn't thought much of it -- she was fairly adept at keeping her personal life shuttered away from them -- but Alicia _definitely_ noticed, and when pressed, Angelina said she'd been awake late because she'd been attacked (she left out the part about her rescuer). Alicia was horrified.

"I _knew_ we should've tried harder to have you come over," Alicia lamented.

"Christ, the shit you get yourself into is unbelievable, Johnson," Oliver added from the kitchen.

"I didn't want to cock up your evening, thank-you-very-much," Angelina responded, shooting a glare at him when he peered around the corner.

Alicia flinched. "Merlin, you two can be foul."

"Quidditch," Angelina said automatically, as this was a familiar topic of conversation. When Oliver echoed her, she gave him a fond look.

"We wouldn't have invited you if we didn't want you here," Alicia said sternly. "How many were there, anyway?"

"Er --" She wracked her brain, trying to remember what George had said. "Three."

The hesitation did not go unnoticed, if the glance Alicia shared with Oliver as he came out into the living room was any indication. "Fought them all off, did you?" Alicia asked. When Angelina nodded, Alicia immediately said flatly, "No you didn't."

Even Oliver seemed surprised by this pronouncement, but it was Angelina who asked grumpily, "How did you know?"

"Because we've been friends for nearly fifteen years and you've _always_ kept things to yourself." In a rather self-satisfied tone, Alicia added, "I've become quite practiced at reading you, since you won't just come out and say things."

"Say, is Katie coming tonight?" Angelina inquired in a desperate, and pathetic, bid to change the subject. She didn't want to talk about George. She was tired of seeing pity on all of her friends' faces when they looked at her, and the split second of it on Alicia's face was always the hardest to stomach.

"Angelina, what happened?"

The concern on her friend's face was worse, though. So, with a sigh, she replied, "George Weasley."

Oliver made a noise and Alicia shot him a look. "George Weasley what?" she asked encouragingly.

"Swept in like a bloody knight in shining armour and saved my arse, that's what."

To Angelina's surprise, Alicia actually looked pleased. "Did he really?"

"What d'you mean, 'did he really'?" Oliver snorted. "You say that like it's out of character for any of the Weasleys to make the grandest entrance possible."

"Is he okay?" Alicia asked.

Angelina remembered the shadow behind George's eyes and smile, but she reminded herself of the look on his face just before he'd left. "I don't know," she finally settled on. "Don't you see him sometimes, anyway?"

"Yeah, but..." Alicia began, only to trail unhelpfully off.

There was so much left unsaid in those two words that Angelina had to glance away from her friend.

"It's not quite the same," Oliver supplied, which actually was shockingly tactful for him.

With a shrug, Angelina said, "He was subdued. Sad. Not the way he used to be." She flicked her eyes at Alicia, caught her gaze for a second, and looked away again. She was the only person Angelina had told about that night four years ago with George. "I don't know, it's the first time I've talked to him in ages. It was the fifth anniversary of -- of Fred's death, of course he was unhappy. _I _was." _You are_, she could see writ large on Oliver's and Alicia's faces. "Is...is he always that sad?" she asked, a little fearful, for some reason, of the answer.

"No," Oliver replied. "Occasionally he can even seem like his old, obnoxious self."

"Oliver doesn't find him obnoxious anymore, though," Alicia remarked, eyebrows raised.

"Well no, obviously, not with -- I mean, for God's sake, now it's like a memorial to Fred, isn't it?"

There was a heavy silence in the room following this statement, and Alicia looked between her husband and her best friend. "Let's not talk about it," she suggested uneasily.

"Good idea," Angelina promptly agreed.

"I'll go finish dinner," Oliver said hastily, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Alicia crossed her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. "Are _you_ okay?"

With a sigh, Angelina said for what felt like the millionth time, "Honestly, I feel fine, nothing really happened to me--"

"I didn't mean that. I meant...seeing George. Was that...alright?"

"Yeah." Angelina hesitated. "Weird, but okay. I think." She gave Alicia a sheepish glance. "Convincing, eh?"

"Very."

"I feel terrible for him, Alicia. I feel like I don't even have a right to miss Fred. Not next to him."

"You do, though, Ange."

She covered her eyes with a hand. "Why does it still have to be so hard?"

Alicia moved to put an arm around Angelina's shoulders, but just then there was a loud crash in the kitchen, accompanied by a shouted obscenity from Oliver. The two women looked at each other, Alicia openly laughing and Angelina's mouth twitching into a smile.

"No trip to the Woods' is complete without a crisis in the kitchen," Angelina deadpanned.

"We'd better help him clean up."

They were greeted with a mess (of course), and Angelina pulled out her wand. When she waved it and commanded, "_Scourgify_," though, it gave a loud hiss, then a pop, and then the pots that were still upright and filled jumped into the air and splattered everywhere, covering Oliver impressively in marinara sauce.

"I think," he said conversationally, "that you might want to get that looked at."

The last thing Angelina wanted to do was make a trip to Diagon Alley, but her wand was an Ollivander's, her wand was acting oddly, and it followed logically that she should make a trip to his shop, which was there. Though there was nothing visibly wrong with it, she must have somehow splintered it when she'd been attacked. When she handed her wand to him and explained what it was doing (she managed to describe, vaguely, 'popping' and 'fizzing' noises) and that she may have broken it in a fall, he did quite a bit of mumbling over it before taking it into the back room with a curt, "This will be an hour or so, Miss Johnson. Feel free to amuse yourself outside."

She stared after him for a moment before turning and wandering aimlessly out the door. After what had happened two days ago, she felt uncomfortable being out without her wand. As it was still quite light, though, and there were a number of people about, she set off slowly down the lane, peering at shop windows as she went by. She could do with a new set of robes, she mused as she passed Madam Malkin's. And another cauldron; hers was wearing a bit thin on the bottom, what with all the headache reliever potions she'd been brewing over the years.

And then, unexpectedly (which was stupid, she quickly reprimanded herself), there was an unmistakable head of blazing hair. Even if she'd been uncertain about _which_ Weasley boy it was, the hole on the left side of his head where an ear should have been made it abundantly clear.

For a minute, she just watched George. His back was to her and he was standing, arms crossed over his chest and head cocked thoughtfully, gazing at the window of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Three days ago, she would have hurried past before he noticed her. Now, though, she took a couple steps towards him and said, "Hi, George."

He whirled to face her, and a wide grin lit his face. "Angelina! Let me ask you something -- is this too much?" He gestured at the window of the shop, which, she noticed for the first time, was full of brightly flashing lights and explosions. Fireworks inside what looked like some kind of Bubble Charm, she realised (marveling at the strength of the spell), just before she had to shut her eyes. The fireworks continued to flash on the backs of her eyelids.

"Too much by whose standards?" she asked, hearing his laughter in response.

"Exactly what I wanted to hear."

Angelina opened her eyes and found herself looking directly into George's. No, not directly -- she had to peer very slightly upwards, which meant -- she couldn't stop herself from thinking -- that he was very slightly taller than Fred was. Had been. "What's all that for?" she asked, giving herself a mental shake.

"Sale on Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs," George answered. "We sell a lot 'round this time, but there're always loads left."

"We?"

"Ronniekins and I." His smile faltered somewhat. "But it'll always be 'we'. And not in the sense that my siblings and in-laws will always be willing to lend a hand."

"Well." She squinted at the fireworks to avoid seeing the look of loss on his face. "I suppose Fred's cofounder, isn't he, so it'll always be partly his."

"Too right."

She could tell, out of the corner of her eye, that he was watching her. Fred had done the same thing to her all the time. Bloody hell! She had to stop comparing George to his brother at every opportunity!

"Do you have a minute to come in?"

The question startled her so much that she snapped her head towards him. Most likely, she'd blanched as well, because he gave her a wan smile and said, "I've not got a shrine to my better half up there. Actually, you wouldn't recognise the place, I've redone it." As an afterthought, he added, "Ron helped."

"Um..." Checking her watch to stall for time and finding that it hadn't even been ten minutes since she'd left Ollivander's, she slowly agreed, "Yeah, I've got a minute."

An uncertain expression crept into his eyes and he stepped closer to her. "You know," he said in a quiet voice, "if you don't want to be around me, you can just say. I won't be too hurt."

Oh, George. There was a hint of a crooked smile on his face, so she knew what he was hoping she'd answer. "Would I have said hello if I didn't want to be around you?"

"S'pose not," he conceded, looking more pleased than she felt she had any right to make him. Motioning to her to follow, he led her up the outside staircase and inside, where she had to stop to get her bearings.

"It looks brilliant," she finally said. Everything looked different -- there was a fireplace, now, for one thing, where there hadn't been one before, and moreover, it was clean. Her eyes were drawn irrevocably to the mantle above it, where framed photos were lined up. Her stomach clenched, but, of course, she couldn't stop herself from approaching them.

Picking up the first one and staring at it wistfully, she said, "We're so happy." It was a photo of the twins, her, Alicia, and Lee Jordan, taken at the Yule Ball. Fred and George -- funny how it was still Fred and George, not the other way around -- were goofing around, Alicia was attempting to look dignified and beautiful while Lee teased her (she _did_ look beautiful; but she'd spent ages getting ready). Angelina looked at her seventeen-year-old self, trying not to look amused while Fred grinned at her, and failing miserably.

"That's why it's there," George said, taking a few steps towards her and standing at her shoulder.

She replaced it and and looked at the adjacent picture, asking, "Ron and Hermione's wedding? And Harry and Ginny's?"

"Yep." There was a note of pride in his voice.

"Sorry I didn't come." She'd felt particularly guilty refusing the invitation to Harry and Ginny's wedding in March, as she saw Ginny on a fairly regular basis.

"S'okay."

"They look like they were beautiful."

"Yeah, they were nice enough. Mum kind of took over planning Ron's and Hermione's. I think she figured she didn't have a chance with Ginny." He smiled a little. "And she didn't. I always thought Gin took after us -- me."

She spotted George in the pictures, and it was jarring to see him alone, especially just after hearing him correct himself. He looked happy, though, hugging his siblings and their spouses.

"Believe it or not," he began, and when she glanced at him he was giving her a sly, sidelong look, "neither Ron nor Ginny seemed too keen on my offer to cater."

"I suppose a few of the guests mysteriously sprouted feathers, anyway," she said, an eyebrow quirked.

"Oddly enough, they did." His gaze drifted to the photos, where Ginny was now waving. "I'm still not used to her being married. It's weird thinking of my baby sister as someone's wife."

"And a mother," she said in a gently teasing tone.

He put a hand over his heart melodramatically. "Please, don't even suggest it. I'm not ready yet."

Almost like old times, she thought sadly.

The last photo on the mantle was of George and a silvery-haired little girl, who was giggling happily as he carried her on his shoulders. "My niece, Victoire," he supplied. "Just turned four."

She couldn't help but start in surprise, though why it should be shocking, she didn't know. Bill and Fleur had been married...six years now? And George looked the part, which she told him, keeping her bemusement to herself.

"Yes, I always rather thought I looked avuncular." His mouth twisted a little. "Might be the best I can hope for."

"What? Why?"

"Oh, the gaping hole in my head makes me scads less fanciable." Though his tone was humourous, there was something dark beneath the words. She furrowed her brow and glanced at him, but he just shook his head and smiled a little. "Never mind."

For a moment, she thought she could leave it at that. Whatever he was implying, it was none of her business; George was not the young man he'd been, he was not the boy whom she could and _would_ say anything to, he was a stranger (_a stranger who would have been your brother-in-law_, that irrepressible part of her mind whispered, before she could choke it off). Your fault, she reminded herself harshly. _You _made him a stranger.

She bit her lip and clenched her eyes shut for a second. "George," she began, twirling and staring at him. Thank God for her height; this look tended not to work as well when one wasn't at eye level. "You're not suggesting that you've no prospects for a family of your own. Please tell me you're not."

An odd expression flickered in his eyes. "Women aren't as interested as you may think in someone buggered up as I am."

"Trust me, it doesn't matter how buggered you think you are, because somebody out there won't care."

"You're a woman. Of course that's true."

"It's not either!"

"You play for Ballycastle, too."

"Just makes me less feminine."

"You're beautiful."

"I'd be flattered, but I suspect you're taking the mickey."

"On my honour --"

"Do you have any?"

George snorted. "Blimey, a bloke tries to be gentlemanly..."

"We were talking about _you_," Angelina pointed out, a little amazed with herself that she was speaking to him like this. Good to know she could still hold her own against the Weasley twins. Weasley twin. "I've _been_ married, if you recall, so I can speak with some authority on this subject. And you don't need to tell me it was a miserable failure. I know, that's why I ended it."

Holding his hands up placatingly, George said, "I'd never say that."

"And I'd _still_ be married if I hadn't realised that I only did it to -- well, none of the right reasons. _He_ didn't care." She realised she was standing a bit close to him and took a step back. "So believe me, George, there's someone out there for you."

He crossed his arms over his chest almost protectively. "You underestimate the extent of my...issues."

"Oh?" Somehow she doubted it.

In a conversational tone, he said, "I haven't slept through the night in five years, my siblings tell me I rely too much on drinking and Cheering Charms, I'm prone to brooding, frequently when I'm supposed to be socialising, and I still haven't worked out how to live without my brother. Can't really see how I'm ever going to, really." He raised an eyebrow. "So, y'see, it's a bit much for prospective girlfriends to handle."

From under a furrowed brow, she watched him a moment before saying, "You _are_ living, though, George."

"And you'd say the same for yourself, I imagine?"

"I..."

He looked chagrined. "Did I mention I've got a habit of saying the wrong thing?"

Giving him a wry smile, she said, "So do I. Sorry."

"Oh, don't apologise. You're probably right, anyhow. You usually were." It was such an echo of what Fred used to say to her that she looked at George sharply, which he didn't seem to notice.

"Those days are long past," she said, rather than dwell on the remark.

"Like most things." He considered for a moment. "Though I find it hard to believe that you'd ever really lose your good sense."

He met her eyes unblinkingly, as if daring her to challenge him. She didn't. Instead, she glanced at her watch in a rather more exaggerated fashion than was strictly necessary. "I've got to pick up my wand," she informed him, pointing at the watch, she immediately thought, quite stupidly.

"Okay." George looked awkward. "I suppose you can find your way out."

"Yeah, I can probably remember, labyrinthine as it was."

He laughed, then said, "Well...I'll see you."

"Yeah, bye."

It was only after she'd stopped back at Ollivander's and recovered her now fully functioning wand that she realised she hadn't seen a single picture of the twins by themselves in George's flat. She stopped in the middle of the street and glanced back towards number 93.

George had been right. Neither of them was really living.

Two weeks later, before she Apparated to the Bats' Quidditch stadium, she came to a swift decision and took off her wedding ring. It was time -- it _had_ been time, considering she'd gotten divorced three years ago. For a few minutes, she contemplated Transfiguring it into something amusing (God knew she needed a laugh), but instead she just threw it in a drawer. She could decide what to do with it later, during her daily struggle not to run out to the shop to buy a bottle of wine. Or something stronger.

She left practice sore, having been knocked from her broom by a Bludger from about twenty feet up, and in the company of Aodheen. They exited the changing rooms chatting, and in a break in the conversation, the other Chaser pointed at something and asked, "Isn't that one of the Weasley twins? The ones who run the joke shop?" She glanced at Angelina. "...Fred, is it?"

"George," Angelina corrected her automatically, and when Aodheen winced, she added, "Don't worry. You're too young to have been able to tell them apart."

She shouldered her broom and approached him after saying good-bye to her teammate, smiling slightly at how vividly his hair stood out against the moorland. "And what brings you here?" she called while she was still a few yards away.

"Just happened to be in the area," he called back cheerfully.

Reaching him, she remarked, "Somehow I doubt that."

"You never know, I might've got a craving for a bit o' Antrim air."

"Mm. You'll have to work on your accent, there, though. That was rather sad."

"I was thinking pathetic, actually," he grinned. "Anyway, I hadn't seen you for awhile, so I thought I'd stop by."

Angelina didn't particularly want to point out that prior to a fortnight ago, he hadn't seen her in four years. She couldn't exactly complain that he was here now. There was still lingering guilt, but there was also the impossible to ignore fact that when she'd seen him, such a bright flare of happiness had burned through her that she'd almost had to catch her breath. She didn't stop to wonder why that should have been.

"Have you been waiting ages?" she asked him.

"No. And I've been enjoying the view, besides. Reminds me a bit of Hogwarts, actually."

"You've never been here, then?"

"Sadly, I'm not what you'd call 'well-traveled'. Always meant to, once the shop took off, but..."

She grasped his hand when he trailed off, at which he seemed very surprised, and gave him a determined smile. "Well, one doesn't come to Ballycastle without doing certain things."

George gave her a crooked smile. "Am I getting a grand tour?"

"I don't know about that, but I can certainly show you a main attraction."

The two of them Disapparated and reappeared on a windswept cliff overlooking the ocean. Dark land was visible on the eastern horizon across a deep blue stretch of sea, and hills loomed behind them in the distance.

"Impressive," George commented appreciatively.

Angelina realised she was still holding his hand and promptly let go of him, replying, "It is, isn't it? Here, this way. I always have to Apparate to the back of beyond to avoid all the Muggles."

"And here I was expecting to have to wipe their memories."

She shot an innocent look at him as they began walking. "It's been known to happen."

"Turned into a right law-breaker, haven't you?"

"I believe the term is 'rule-bender'," she retorted with a smirk.

George adopted an expression of mock pride. "You've learned well, Angelina. But then, you had the best teachers, didn't you?"

"No one could argue with that."

He looked, again, inordinately pleased, though she was certain it didn't have anything to do with her comment. After a moment, he said, "Tell me about the Bats, then. I've kept an eye on them since you signed, but I haven't seen many matches."

"You've been to some?" she asked, shocked.

"Kind of had to."

"No you didn't."

"I did," he said firmly.

As she wasn't sure what to say to that, she just replied, "I love playing for them. Really, everyone else is brilliant."

"Players or people?"

"Both."

"Lucky."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I've gathered Ginny's not quite so blessed?"

Snorting, George said, "One or two of the Harpies apparently live up to their name. I've told Ginny I'd be happy to have them do a blind test on any new Snackboxes, but I don't think she took me seriously." Angelina laughed, and George said, "You, by the way, are a magnificent Chaser. I'm not sure it's fair for one person to be that good."

"_Shameless_ flattery," she said, hoping he wouldn't notice her blushing.

"Not at all," he said stubbornly. "It's no wonder Ballycastle's top of the League."

"Theodosia's a good Captain, that's why."

He shook his head at her, amusement on his face. The conversation had kept them occupied for the duration of the walk, and groups of people had come into view, strolling along a path up ahead. Snatches of conversation and laughter drifted towards them on the breeze, not all in English.

"Want to sit down?" she asked.

"Sounds excellent. I even," he began, producing a bag from his pocket (that was far too large to fit there naturally) with a flourish, "brought tea." At her look of bemusement, he said, "That Hermione, she can teach you a lot of dead useful things."

He spread a collection of sandwiches and biscuits out when they sat down and proceeded to tuck in. "This," he said after a large swallow, "is a very nice view. What's that?" He was pointing, with a roast beef sandwich, at a tableau of black rock, thrusting out of the waves in a honeycomb of columns. When she'd first seen it six years ago, it had stopped her in her tracks. It was so odd and so stark, and she'd not seen anything else quite like it before or since.

"Giant's Causeway," she answered happily.

"Ah." He raised an eyebrow. "You're very pleased to be able to show this off to me."

"Well, I've become very fond of Northern Ireland," she said, still smiling. "There's a legend that giants built it, which of course is rubbish, it's millions of years old, natural processes and all that, _but_, the giants definitely did _use_ it. They'd go back and forth to Scotland when the Irish Sea was shallower."

He'd kept his gaze on her throughout this, but when she mentioned Scotland, his eyes flicked to the horizon, to the smudge of land there. "Is it so close?"

"Yep." She felt her smile slip away. "Something about being here and being able to look at it like this, it's a bit like...like I can leave my problems behind for awhile." She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, taking a bite of a biscuit. "I know it's silly."

Quickly, she glanced at George, who was watching her. With a half smile, he said, "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

Leaning her cheek against her hand, she returned the slight smile and met his eyes. "You could say that."

He gave her an appraising look, then asked casually, "D'you want to come to dinner at my parents' with me?"

"What?" she choked. It was completely unfair of him to spring that upon her like this!

George turned very slightly pink. "No worries if you don't. I just thought it might be nice."

Angelina blinked at him and ran through several possible responses in her head. Finally, she just said weakly, "But your parents barely know me."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," he replied, his tone a bit cautious. "Mum's always happy to feed one more person."

Fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve to avoid meeting his eyes, she said, "Well, I... When will this be taking place?"

"Next week."

"Um..." She could think of a lot of reasons to say 'no,' but unfortunately, she just didn't _want_ to say any of them. "Sure."

He twisted the top off a bottle of Butterbeer, grinning, and handed it to her. "Cheers."


	4. Chapter 4

4

"I am finding out that maybe I was wrong; that I've fallen down and I can't do this alone" -- Paramore, "My Heart"

There were still chickens in the yard. They might have been, Angelina thought dubiously, the same chickens that had been at the Burrow the first time she'd visited, though she hadn't gotten a particularly good look at them, as she'd been too busy shouting at the twins to let her out of the chicken coop at the time, which was dark and distinctly pungent.

When she'd pondered the chickens sufficiently, she started towards the house. Before she got anywhere near it, though, the door was flung open and a young woman yelled, "George! Angelina's here!" A shock of red hair streamed out behind Ginny Potter as she hurried outside. When she reached Angelina, she gave her a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek.

Both took Angelina by surprise, but she returned the hug and said, "I've not had the chance to say congratulations yet."

"Oh, thank you." Ginny beamed at her and glanced over her shoulder as the door clattered. Over the top of Ginny's head, Angelina saw George ambling towards them, hands stuck in his pockets and a smile on his face.

"Hi," he said. "You made it."

"Did you think I'd renege on my acceptance?" she asked, smirking a little.

"Not for a second."

Ginny rolled her eyes fondly at her brother. "He's been worried all afternoon."

"Thanks, Gin."

She shot him a cheeky smile that bore an uncanny resemblance to the twins' -- George's -- own grin and turned to go back inside. "No problem, George!"

He shook his head at her and looked sheepishly at Angelina. "I wasn't really _worried_ --"

"I'm not offended," she assured him, her mouth twitching into a smile.

"Oh, that's good. Be a bit awkward at dinner if you were." He paused. "Talking of dinner, shall we go in? Ron and Hermione are here. Percy and Penelope, too." Leaning closer to her, he said in a conspiratorial voice, "Between you and me -- well, and Ginny -- Percy's got 'big news' written all over his face. I think there may be another Weasley on the way."

Privately, Angelina hoped that if that were the case, Percy and his wife wouldn't choose to announce it while she was there. When they stepped inside, she was immediately greeted by Ron and Harry, followed closely by Hermione, then Percy (whose handshake was a little stiff and awkward, which made her recall that he'd been with Fred at the end) and Penelope. She made, she rather thought, a valiant effort to not feel utterly overwhelmed by the Weasley onslaught, but that illusion was quickly dashed when Mrs Weasley bustled out of the kitchen and grabbed Angelina up in a tight hug.

"Oh, dear, it's so good to see you, how have you been?"

"Fine," Angelina answered, a bit breathless in spite of her best efforts. "Really well, Mrs Weasley --" the lie would not hurt, "-- how are you?"

Mrs Weasley's eyes looked rather brighter than Angelina felt comfortable with. "Oh. You know, getting on. The boys look after me."

George gently disentangled Angelina from his mother's grasp -- she reminded herself to thank him for that later -- and said, "It's the least we can do, Mum; not that you need looking after."

She patted him on the cheek. "That's kind of you to say, George."

"I speak only the truth."

With a smile at her son, Mrs Weasley said to everyone within earshot, "Dinner's nearly ready, so if you'd like to sit down, you can." She disappeared back into the kitchen, only to be replaced by Mr Weasley, who wasn't, Angelina was grateful to find, as exuberant in his greeting as his wife had been.

"So how's Quidditch, Angelina?" Harry asked her, which launched her into a conversation with him, Ron, Ginny, and, surprisingly (to Angelina, at least), Penelope, that lasted them well into dinner. George, who had sat to her right at the table, spent much of the meal with his head propped up on his hand, discussing the accounts at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes perfectly seriously (though occasionally he'd shoot a tiny smile at Angelina, once accompanied by a wink) with Percy. Hermione captivated Mr Weasley by describing to him how her brand new Citroën worked, and Mrs Weasley let out a poorly stifled yelp when her daughter-in-law offered to let Mr Weasley 'have a look' at it.

"Hope you're enjoying yourself," George said to Angelina quietly, when Percy's attention turned to his parents and Hermione, and everyone else's to the Holyhead Harpies.

Though she couldn't deny that her nerves still felt slightly jangly, she gave him a smile and a nod. "Of course I am."

He looked relieved and touched her elbow lightly, which she found oddly comforting.

Soon enough, the meal was over, and Angelina quickly offered to help Mrs Weasley wash dishes. She didn't much think she'd be missed, since the siblings and their spouses were engaged in an animated discussion about what the most horrendous thing their Auntie Muriel had said at Harry and Ginny's wedding was. George's imitation got the loudest laugh.

"It was so good of you to come tonight, Angelina," Mrs Weasley said as Angelina handed her a stack of plates.

"Well, it was nice of you to have me," she replied. "It's been so long since I've seen you, after all. I didn't want to intrude."

Mrs Weasley gazed out the window for a moment. "It's never an intrusion. You were practically family."

Angelina couldn't think of anything to say to this, so she just kept her mouth closed.

"George told me," Mrs Weasley went on, still looking out the window, "that Fred was talking about...about marriage. Before he..." She shook herself and glanced back at Angelina. "Anyway, feel free to come by anytime. You're always welcome. I'm just sorry that we didn't see you sooner."

"Yeah." Angelina forced a smile. "Me too." Her mind had shifted into gear as she wondered what, exactly, George had told his family about her. The conversation turned to more prosaic matters after that, but her attention was only half focussed upon it.

"Mum, would you mind coming out here for a minute?" Percy asked from the door.

Mrs Weasley dried her hands and exited the kitchen while Angelina hesitated. If this was an announcement of an impending grandchild, she was quite certain she didn't want to be present. Despite Mrs Weasley's words, she wasn't like family, not in the slightest. She had contact with Ginny only because their shared profession forced them to, and, far worse, she had used George in one of the most vile ways possible.

A sudden babble of noise in the other room made her suspect that George had, indeed, been correct, so she busied herself with finishing the washing up. Her pleasure in everyone's company had evaporated the moment she suspected that they might be aware of much more about her personal life than she wanted anyone to be. Maybe they'd all forget she was here.

A few minutes passed, and suddenly Ginny's voice, louder than the rest, reached Angelina's ears. "--really fantastic, Penny, I wish we could stay longer!" The young woman burst into the kitchen and said, "Oh, Angelina, I just wanted to say good-bye -- Harry and I have to be off -- did you hear the news? Penelope's pregnant!" She looked briefly annoyed. "I don't know why Perce just asked for Mum and ignored you."

"Oh, no worries. It's really more something for your family to share."

"Rubbish, the more the merrier -- but what's done is done. I'll see you again soon? Hopefully before we play you next."

"Hopefully," Angelina replied with what felt like a very fake smile, though Ginny didn't seem to notice. With another brief hug, Ginny left the kitchen again to say good-bye to the rest of her family. Harry called, "See you, Angelina!" and she responded in kind, and the door shut loudly just as she finished scrubbing the last plate clean.

Within the next twenty minutes, Percy and Penelope left as well, which left George and Ron deep in conversation about Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Hermione smiled at Angelina and she returned it, feeling cold as she did so. It was almost as though she was staring into a mirror, and it was showing her what life could have been like. Only now, she'd always be outside it.

"Mum," George said suddenly, "do you want me to bring those extra chairs back out to the shed?"

"Would you, George?" she responded, a grateful look on her face.

"No problem," he said, getting to his feet.

"I'll help," Angelina said quickly, and before anyone could protest, she grabbed a chair in each hand and marched outside.

George caught up with her only when she had to stop to open the shed door, and she stacked the chairs inside before whirling to face him, her expression dangerous. "What have you told your family about me, George Weasley?" she demanded, and for a second, he looked so amusingly befuddled that she almost laughed.

"Er... 'fraid I don't know what you mean," he finally said carefully.

She jammed her hands onto her hips and glared at him. "The way they're treating me, it's like...like..." She cast about for the most appropriate way to put this. "Like I'm in such a delicate mental state that they all have to be as kind to me as possible, or--or--like I'm some kind of invalid, and-- Merlin's balls, George, did you tell them what happened between us?"

His eyebrows shot up and for an instant, he just stared at her. Then, he glanced back at the house before grabbing her arm and pulling her into the shed, shutting the door behind them. It was pitch black for a second, until George's wand tip flared and he stuck it into a knot in the wall.

"Of course I didn't tell them!" he said, his voice low. "I haven't told _anyone_. Not even Fred's headstone, and trust me, I've had plenty of heart-to-hearts with _that_."

She had no idea if he was joking. "Then why--"

"Because I told them that we should've made you feel like you could come here," George interrupted, his tone intense. "I finally 'fessed up about where Fred was sneaking off to all those nights at Auntie Muriel's; they all thought it was just girls, but I finally said it was _always_ you, I said he wanted a family; everyone knows that Fred would've married you the second the war was over--"

Abruptly, he cut off and drew a deep breath. Angelina's heart was pounding, though for the life of her, she couldn't imagine why, and she wondered if George could hear its thundering. They were standing very close to each other, after all, and his hand was still on her arm...

"George," she breathed, "I'm sorry."

He dropped his eyes to the floor. "It's fine. It was an honest mistake."

"No," she said, and he met her gaze again, surprise reflecting in his eyes. "I mean, I'm sorry about what I did. To you. That night? I've never apologised. And I was horrible, and just...beastly, and wrong, and I've never been able to forgive myself for hurting you. And..." She swallowed painfully. "I've been pathetic since Fred died, I know I have, but I just...it's like I can't move on, even though I want to, and...and...I should've apologised to you ages ago."

This all came out far more muddled than she'd meant it to, but judging by the expression on George's face, he didn't mind.

"I know you're nervous being around me," he said softly and, as far as she was concerned, completely unexpectedly.

Funny how if her heart wasn't pounding, it was because it had stopped altogether. Neither of them needed to elaborate on what he'd said -- that she was afraid she'd want him, fall for him, even, solely because he was Fred's twin. "There's more," she finally said with a gulp, "to both of you than just your faces."

Curse the inadequacies of English, that she had to refer to both of them in the same tense.

"Well, that means a lot, coming from you, Ange," he said, and she was grateful to see a hint of a smile on his face.

They just stared at each other for a long moment, and then -- Angelina never was quite sure why -- a snort of laughter escaped her. George looked amused, and when she continued to laugh, he started in as well, and before long, they were leaning against each other, in hysterics. It was several minutes before either of them calmed down and gained enough control to speak.

George's arm was draped around her shoulders and she was slumped against his chest when he finally asked, grinning down at her, "What's so funny, anyway?"

"I don't know," she replied, "_you're_ the funny one."

He laughed again, and even though it would have made perfect sense for her to move away from him, she didn't. "So, I assume this means we're both ready to put that particular incident behind us?" he asked.

"Definitely," she said, more to his collarbone than him, really, but she wasn't fussed. "And -- George?"

"Yeah?"

She straightened up a little to find that their faces were incredibly close together. "I'm not nervous being around you." It was a bald-faced lie, but she needed him to believe her.

"Good to know," he said in a soft tone. "I've gotten kind of used to seeing you."

The really interesting thing was, up close like this, George really didn't look like Fred at all.

Abruptly, the door swung open, and the two of them snapped their heads around to see Ron, who had a mixture of alarm, amusement, and confusion on his face. "What are you two doing?" he asked, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hair.

"Talking," George answered cheerfully. "What are _you_ doing, sneaking about and interrupting people's conversations?"

"There didn't seem to be much conversation going on," Ron pointed out, his tone just as chipper as George's. "Hermione and I are leaving; I told Mum you'd probably be off soon, too."

"Oh, probably," George agreed. "See you tomorrow."

"Yep. 'Bye, Angelina," he said with a wave, which she returned.

"Hey, Ron," George called as his brother started back, "you know this means that I'm expecting a niece or nephew from you next!"

"Tell that to Hermione," Ron called back, grinning broadly. "She's got her _career_, you know."

Angelina leaned against the door frame and watched Ron's figure recede into the twilight, towards the warm lights of the Burrow. "You're really lucky," she said, without really meaning to.

George raised an inquiring eyebrow at her. "In what particular way?"

She made a vague motion that took in the yard and the house. "Your family."

"They have their good points."

"I mean, it's nice that you can all be there for each other."

With a thoughtful nod, he said, "That's certainly true."

Glancing up at the few stars that had begun to twinkle in the orange-purple dusk, she admitted, "The value of allowing other people to help one has been rather lost on me, I'm afraid."

When she turned her eyes back to him, he was gazing at her with an expression that she found completely unreadable. "You always did think you had to manage everything on your own," he eventually said.

"I still do."

Unexpectedly, he put his hand on her shoulder, and she met his eyes steadily. "There's no shame in realising you can't do everything alone, Angelina."

Hesitating, she replied, "There's a difference between knowing that and actually acting upon it."

"I know," he said a bit ruefully, and she reminded herself who she was talking to and what the last five years must have been like for him. He'd had to learn to live his life alone.

He'd developed a knack, she had to admit, for making one feel like it would be okay to put his -- or really, more appropriately, her -- complete faith in him; that he may not exactly know how to make things better, but he would certainly stand beside one until they got there.

"I don't know if I've got it in me," she said in a low tone.

His hand gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Never know 'til you try, do you?"


	5. Chapter 5

5

"Razor sharp, razor clean, feel the weapon's sensation on your back with loaded guns" -- Shiny Toy Guns, "Le Disko"

He came to three of her Quidditch matches (not counting the one he'd been at that had been Ballycastle versus Holyhead, because surely he'd been there to see his sister). After the third time she spotted his red hair in the stands, they went to a pub and ate dinner together.

It was a blustery October night, damp, full of the promise of a storm, and dark by five o'clock. They chose a Muggle pub after establishing that they had enough pounds sterling between the two of them to pay (Angelina had more, and George vowed that he would make it up to her), and when they were finished, they walked in a rather aimless fashion through the empty streets of town and out into still bright green pastureland.

"Halloween's next week," George remarked idly.

"Well done," she said with a smirk.

He gave her a lofty look. "I shan't dignify that with a response."

"You just did."

"That's not important."

She shot him a slim smile and he returned it, his grin flashing white in the darkness. "Did you have anything to say about Halloween or was that just an observation?" she asked.

"I was wondering if you're going to Oliver and Alicia's party?"

"Are you?"

"Haven't decided yet," he replied breezily.

Making a face, Angelina replied, "I never go to their parties."

"Some friend," he said, his tone full of mock umbrage.

"Oh, shut it, George Weasley. It's just not quite my cup of tea."

"Mm," he agreed seriously. "The loud noises, the voices, the people...it must all be rather difficult for you."

She shook her head at him, her mouth twitching in an effort not to smile. "You know, I honestly _don't_ like crowds."

His face turned a bit thoughtful, and she knew that he was about to ask her something that most people would consider terribly rude. That was part of his charm, she supposed. "I thought," he began, more delicately that she would have thought him capable of, "that your dislike of crowds had more to do with seeing people you know than the throng itself?"

"You'd be right," she answered.

"Well," he said, "be that as it may, do you want to go?"

It took her a beat to really register this question. "G-go?" she stuttered. "With you?"

He seemed to be fighting not to look amused. "We could show up separately, if you prefer."

"You're not suggesting that--" she began.

"--This is a date," he finished. "No. Obviously." His tone was a shade too hearty and she flicked her eyes towards him. This had always been one of George's quirks -- he was not quite the liar that Fred had been.

"George --"

"Forget it," he said quickly.

She gave him an exasperated look. "Stop being a twit. D'you want to go or not? And would you like me to go with you? Just because two members of the opposite sex show up at a party together doesn't mean...anything." The ending could use a little work, she thought critically, but the point was there.

"When you put it like that," he said, sounding absurdly honoured, "how can I say no?"

"It's easy, if that's what you want."

They stopped walking at a stone hedgerow and Angelina pivoted to face him. A scrap of cloud opened up in the sky and for a moment, the moon shone across their faces, casting both of them in surprisingly bright light. So she could see a flash of emotion in his eyes, which might have been uncertainty, or even guilt. But she couldn't imagine why he should feel guilty, so surely it was just a trick of the ghostly light.

"If you'd give me the honour of your company, nothing would make me happier," he told her debonairly, and whatever had been in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. Now, in fact, she was unsure that she'd seen it at all.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" he exclaimed suddenly, rummaging around in his coat pockets until he found a heavy brown envelope. "Happy birthday."

"It's not until tomorrow," she protested, "and you certainly shouldn't be giving me anything!"

"It's nothing," he said dismissively, though he sounded pleased. "But do us a favour -- open it later, okay? When you get home."

She took it from his hands carefully and wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the envelope to her chest. "Sure," she agreed. "And thank you."

"Thank me when you see what it is. You may suddenly find yourself with the urge to hex me into the next county."

"I doubt that."

"Then you've got far more trust in me than you ought to."

"_That_ goes without saying," she pointed out.

He laughed. "I suppose it does."

"Anyway, the answer is yes."

"Yes?"

"You may have the honour of my company at the Woods' Halloween party."

That night, she stayed out late. But after all, just because two members of the opposite sex kept making excuses for why they didn't need to go home _quite_ yet, it didn't mean anything.

The following night, she remembered George's gift, still tucked into the pocket of her coat. She opened the envelope carefully, exposing a note and the corner of a photo, and, with slightly shaking hands, she pulled both out.

It was, of course, a picture of her and Fred. They were in Diagon Alley and his arm was around her waist. As she watched, the then-Angelina looped her arms around Fred's neck while he kissed her swiftly. They were, she guessed, eighteen or nineteen, and everything was still fine, or near enough fine; the world hadn't yet turned to complete hell and wondering if the people you loved were alive or whether they were lying still beneath the sickly green light of the Dark Mark, at least not for them; it was still a world where there was the luxury of wondering if you really were in love with that handsome, devilish young man, and there was no hurry to tell him if you were, because the two of you had all the time in the world.

She bit her lip and didn't cry, and then her eyes fell on the note, scribbled in George's semi-legible hand.

_Angelina_, it read, _Been holding onto this for five years. I figured it's better off in your hands than mine. Love, George_.

God, she missed Fred. She missed the person she'd been. She missed the George that wasn't always a thought away from loneliness and grief.

The thought of George, though, eased the pain that had sprung up so suddenly. She liked to think they helped each other; certainly he had helped her. His friendship, his humour, his willingness to sit with her, doing absolutely nothing, sometimes in silence, had done more for her temperament in five months than she'd otherwise been able to accomplish in five years.

And, apparently, he signed his name with 'love.' Well, the twins always _had_ managed to surprise her.

This last point was not something she anticipated mentioning to him, though, as she thanked him on Halloween.

"Bit of a depressing birthday present, really. But I thought you should have it." George offered her his hand. "Shall we be off, then? We've got a party to attend. If," he added, eyeing her, "you still want to go, that is."

She took his hand, briefly though, and stepped out of her flat, shutting the door behind her. "No, let's go." She almost told him that he was looking very handsome -- jokingly -- but thought at the last minute that he might take her seriously.

The party, once they arrived, was loud, well-stocked with food and alcohol, and absolutely full of acquaintances and old classmates. Lee Jordan and Katie Bell were the first two people she felt any obligation to talk to (after Alicia and Oliver, the former of whom gave both her and George hugs upon arrival, while the latter shook George's hand with a, "Good to see you, Weasley," then ruffled Angelina's hair affectionately, earning him a swat from her), and she couldn't help but notice the way the two of them leaned towards each other and how frequently their eyes met. That would be interesting, she supposed, and good for Katie, who had harboured an attraction for Lee for some time. Her friend had, Angelina had always thought, been a bit jealous of her for her ability to hold Lee's attention. But he had backed off after Fred's death, which she was later grateful for. She'd been in a state to accept affection from anyone who'd show it to her and always regretted it the following morning.

Someone soon suggested that Lee take charge of the music, being, as he was, a rapidly ascending star at the WWN, which left Angelina and George alone with Katie.

"I hear you've a new boss at your department," George remarked to Katie.

She took a swig of ale. "Yeah, Hermione's ambitious, that's for sure. I like her, though. She's definitely more organized, too." Fixing Angelina with a look, she said, "I never thought you'd come tonight."

Angelina gestured with her bottle to George and glanced over at him, saying, "He convinced me," which he acknowledged with a smile.

"Really?" Katie asked with raised eyebrows.

"I can be extremely convincing," George said.

"As I think we're all aware," Angelina said, smirking just a bit.

George opened his mouth to respond, but then his eyes drifted past Angelina's face and focussed on something in the room behind her. "Oh, shit," he said.

Abruptly, he whirled and busied himself selecting an assortment of crisps, and Katie and Angelina exchanged bemused looks. "Problem, George?" Angelina asked, leaning forward so that she had a view of his profile.

"Not at all," he replied lightly.

"You seem to have a problem with Cho Chang, actually," Katie observed.

George's shoulders stiffened ever-so-slightly, which Angelina noticed but Katie appeared oblivious to. "Be a bit hard for you to avoid anyone," she said to him, quietly, "with that lovely hair of yours."

Flicking his gaze to hers, he asked in a tone that was only half-joking, "My hair's 'lovely', is it?"

"I'll leave you two to whisper to each other," Katie said, with a meaningful look at Angelina that she didn't really understand, before wandering off.

Angelina glanced over her shoulder and there, sure enough, was Cho Chang, beautiful in a way she could never hope to achieve. "Is it really Chang you don't want to talk to?"

George hesitated. "Yes."

"Want to tell me why?" She had a funny feeling she knew.

"No."

"Did you shag her, George?"

He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, as if asking for strength from above. "I might've."

An odd twist in her stomach at those words gave her pause. Then, she observed blithely, "Well, she's spotted you and she's headed this way."

Without looking at Angelina, George said, "Amazing how when you do something stupid, it'll always come back to haunt you."

"Well, I'll see you in a bit," she said, choosing not to respond to that and leaving him to be cornered by Chang. Within a few minutes, she found herself drawn into a conversation with Kenneth Towler, Ernie MacMillan, and Verity...well, Angelina didn't actually know her surname. They went through the typical chit-chat about what they were all doing these days and laughing about their old school days, both while drinking several bottles of ale between them. Just as Angelina began to drift out of the conversation, she was jarred back into it by MacMillan finishing a sentence with, "--Fred Weasley."

Towler shook his head. "Damn shame that they got him, that was."

"Horrible," Verity agreed quietly. "It's never been the same, working at their shop."

"You and Fred were seeing each other, weren't you, Angelina?"

"Er." Her lungs felt empty of air for a second. Why were they talking about this? Was there a way to excuse herself somewhat gracefully without having to answer the question? "Yeah."

Towler actually _winked _at her, at which point she noticed how unfocussed his eyes were and how red his face. "Saw you with George earlier; guess that's one of the advantages of their being twins, yeah?"

She only narrowly restrained herself from whipping out her wand and jinxing him silly, and, in fact, she thought it was rather impressive that she didn't punch him in the face. Instead, she just said, through gritted teeth, that she was going to the loo, when in fact she went and scooped up a bottle of wine -- still nearly full -- and went to find a stranger to dance with. After she finished the wine. Which didn't take long. Sodding Towler, he always _had_ been an arse. The room got much hotter very quickly, so she had to quit dancing. She was dizzy, anyway, and the music was too loud...

The stairs outside Oliver and Alicia's flat seemed a perfectly sensible place to go. Angelina sank down on one and put a new bottle of ale between her feet. Her temples were beginning to pound, so she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall. It didn't help much; the bass from the music pounded as hard as her head, but then the two beats began to keep tempo with each other, so she left her face turned against the cool wood, sinking into the patterns the grain was etching into her forehead.

The door creaked open and she nudged her bottle slightly as a concession that she might have to move, and then someone sat down next to her and put an arm around her. "Budge over a little, Johnson," George said softly.

"I hate this song," she said into the wall.

"Bad, isn't it?"

"The stairs are tilting, too."

She heard him laugh a little. "You're drunk, darlin'."

"'M not."

He rubbed her shoulder. "Sorry I abandoned you earlier."

A tear slid down her face and dropped into her lap with what seemed like a large splash, and she didn't want to cry in front of George Weasley -- well she didn't want to cry, it gave her a headache usually and she had one anyway -- not when he had shagged bloody Chang and Towler could make vile insinuations, and those two things didn't really have anything to do with not wanting to cry, she supposed, but she didn't love George just because he was Fred's twin -- wait, she didn't love George, full stop.

"Hey." He had a handkerchief in his hand and gently tilted her face towards him, wiping away the tears that were dangling from her chin. "I've not made you cry, have I?"

She moved to swipe her hand across her eyes, but he gave her the handkerchief and she used that instead. "No," she said with a slight sniffle. "Except why does Chang always have to look so stunning?"

"I didn't notice."

"You did. You had to've."

"Nope." He unstuck a strand of hair that had been plastered to her face by her tears and tucked it behind her ear. "You're not upset about that, are you?"

She shook her head quickly and ignored the renewed sting in her eyes. "Just...people. Saying things." There was something wonderful about the fact that his arm was still around her shoulders, and she realised she was leaning into him, but the wine had dulled her ability to care that this was exactly what she'd spent years worrying about.

"I wanna go home," she slurred.

"Okay." George stood up and helped her to her feet. "Want me to take you?"

"S'alright, I can make it," she answered as she stumbled upon a step.

He shook his head and grasped her upper arm. "Better let me help."

"I don't need --"

"I'm undeterred, believe it or not," George said firmly.

She slumped into him and allowed him to lead her outside, and within a minute or two they were back at her flat. He helped her up the stairs and sat her down on her bed, then knelt in front of her. "You going to be okay?"

Angelina flopped over onto her side. She felt ill. "Yeah."

He gave her a dubious look and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "Whatever they said to you, ignore it," he advised.

"You didn't hear it."

"True, but I can use my imagination."

"Mm. Don't think so," she mumbled, her eyelids drooping and her cheek pressed into her pillow. George had become a pleasant, blurry form leaning towards her. "Wager you wish I wasn't such a mess," she said sleepily.

"Now, why would I wish that?"

"'Cause."

"Is there more to that?"

"Uh-uh."

"I like you fine the way you are."

"That's stupid, George."

He snorted. "Well, thank you."

"Y'welcome." She curled up a bit and was surprised when she didn't hear him move. "I wish I didn't still miss Fred so much," she said, her voice so soft that she wondered if he heard her at all.

His voice caught a little as he replied, "I know."

"I'm glad you're here." With a struggle, she opened one eye a slit and looked up at him.

The expression on his face surprised her -- it was tender, almost, and he reached out and put a hand gently to her face. "Oh, Ange," was all he said, and she had no idea what he meant by it.

There was dead silence in the room for several minutes, and then Angelina murmured, "I'm okay now, George."

He nodded and moved to stand up, but at the last second he hesitated, leaned down, and kissed her gently on the forehead. She opened her eyes fully and met his, wondering why she had not appreciated them properly until now. Wondering, too, why it took him so long to straighten up and what the expression on his face meant when he finally did so.

"Mind if I come by tomorrow?" he asked.

"I never mind. I always want to see you."

A very odd look flashed across his face. "I'll keep that in mind."

He left quietly in a few minutes and Angelina promptly fell into a sound sleep.

November and December passed in rain, snow, and sleet, Christmas baubles and fairy lights, and parties that Kenneth Towler was most definitely not invited to. One memorable evening halfway through December was spent playing an impromptu game of Quidditch with Ginny, Harry, and George in the middle of a snowstorm. Angelina felt a twinge as she saw Harry and Ginny cuddling by the fire afterwards, but George leaned over to her and said in an extremely serious tone, "Oh, Angelina, would you like a snuggle?" then reached for her with a dour expression on his face. She snorted and ducked his grasp, and both of them tried to look innocent when Harry and Ginny glanced back at them.

"No thank you," she said to him primly, and Ginny looked once more over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

On New Year's Eve, she went to Oliver and Alicia's, along with Katie and Lee, and went unkissed at midnight, which didn't bother her, of course. It was just a bit awkward, what with Oliver and Alicia _and_ Lee and Katie there.

The following day, she decided to stay in, as sleet was pelting down rather unpleasantly. She pulled a tatty sweater over her pyjamas and stretched out on the sofa, trying to decide how best to spend her day of lazing about. The sleet came down harder, hissing on the roof, and she flipped through a few books her parents had given her for Christmas.

And then, to her surprise, someone knocked on the door, and she opened it to find George shaking slush off his robes. "Happy New Year," he said with a grin.

"You too," she returned, extending an arm to invite him in.

He gave her a gallant little bow and stepped inside, removing his sopping robes and hanging them on a hook. "Have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah. Quiet. You?"

"Pretty good. Definitely _not_ quiet."

She smiled, then glanced down at herself and said a bit sheepishly, "Sorry to inflict my attractive fashion choices upon you. I wasn't expecting company."

"You always look lovely," George said unthinkingly.

"I think you may have a vision problem," she retorted, though she felt a flush rising to her cheeks. It wasn't the first time such a thing had happened in the past several months, and it flustered her more than she cared to admit, even fully to herself.

"Don't think so," he said cheerfully. "It's my hearing that's a bit wonky."

She shook her head but didn't put up any further fight on the subject. "Want something to eat or drink?"

His face darkened very slightly. "No, I just came from lunch at my parents'."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Did something happen?"

"Oh." He shrugged. "It was just fairly unpleasant, if you don't mind me whinging."

She sat down on the sofa and motioned for him to join her, which he did. "Tell me."

He hesitated before responding. "Victoire found some old pictures and started asking why there were two of me, which honestly, I thought was funny, but unfortunately, not everyone shared my opinion."

"Your mum cry?" Angelina guessed.

He nodded tiredly. "And that set Victoire off, which upset Fleur, of course...ugh. Then Penny and Hermione tried to explain to Victoire why she shouldn't have said what she did, and you know, try explaining to a four-year-old that one of her uncles had a brother who looked just like him, but who died, and half the time we still can't talk about it because someone might start sobbing..."

He put a hand to his forehead, and Angelina wondered if he felt he'd said a bit too much, but then he went on, "I was ready to tell them to leave the kid alone, but Charlie manhandled me into comforting Mum. Which, normally, I'm happy to do. Sometimes I think it's a toss-up as to which one of us took Fred's dying worse...but there comes a point, you know?" Angelina pressed her lips together and watched him, unwilling to say that she'd had trouble finding that point, herself.

After a moment, he looked her in the eye. "I've gotten bloody tired of people telling me what Fred would've thought or done in the last five and a half years, but if Fred had seen that, he'd've been furious. Who bleeding cares if Victoire wants to know about him? I'll tell her. Happy to, actually. Poor Vicky -- oh, I'm not supposed to call her that -- it shouldn't be wrong to ask a simple question. Though," he added with a rueful snort, "I suppose it's not simple."

He drew in a deep breath, as if readying himself to continue, but then he closed it again and looked at her apologetically. For a moment, Angelina considered assuring him that she didn't care, that she was actually touched that he opened himself up to her so much, but something stopped her.

Instead, she just asked, "Are you going to tell her, then?"

George seemed surprised, but his smile crept back onto his face. "Yeah, someday. Maybe see if I can nudge her down the celebrated Fred-and-George path."

They held each other's gazes for a long moment, and George broke eye contact first, asking at the same time, "Want to have dinner later?"

"Sure," she replied. He still looked troubled, so she covered his hand with hers, trying to think of the best thing to say. Nothing came, though, so she just patted his hand a bit awkwardly and asked, "Are you going to come back later or are you staying all day?"

"Was that an invitation?"

"It was more like a warning. There's not going to be much excitement around here."

"Well." He glanced at her. "Your company _is_ delightful. And fairly exciting, if you don't mind me saying."

She bit her lip to avoid displaying the slightly foolish smile that she felt, inexplicably, coming on. "Make yourself comfortable, then."

"I'm comfortable," he said easily.

Later that night, after dinner and after going to bed and falling into a sound sleep, Angelina awoke abruptly. At first, she laid in bed, listening to inebriated singing and shouting outside. For some reason, this did not annoy her in the way it normally would have done. There was something, like a warm glow, burning within her, and she didn't know exactly why, but --

Oh. Bugger.

A realisation had just hit her.

A realisation had just hit her, rather in the manner of a train steaming cross-country. She felt flattened by it -- bowled over, run down, and beat up, and any other number of similar phrases.

Which really was a shame, because for any other twenty-six-year-old woman, it would have been a wonderful thing to comprehend.

She was in love.

Unfortunately, she'd fallen for completely the wrong person.

She was in love with George Weasley.


	6. Chapter 6

6

"Kindred soul, cracked spirit; It has to end to begin" -- Sia, "Numb"

It was harder than one might think to avoid someone but not to give him any indication that you were doing so. Angelina spent two and a half weeks attempting to accomplish this while she worked out what do do about her...inconvenient feelings. Or inappropriate, maybe. In any case, it was impossible to stay completely out of George's way, and those times that she saw him, she tried to convince herself that she was mistaken, or otherwise that she could force herself _out_ of love (which always worked _so_ well, of course). The trouble was, now that she'd recognised her feelings for what they were, she found that she was jittery around him, flustered especially when he was near, and constantly scrutinising herself, trying to tell if she was in love with George because he was George or because he was Fred's twin. This last aspect was distracting, to say the least, as she second-guessed all of her thoughts and reactions while in his presence. And he almost certainly noticed.

Finally, she felt she had no choice. She confessed everything to Alicia, because she _was_ learning the value of counting on one's friends.

Alicia blinked at Angelina after the latter's first frantic wail that she was in love with that purveyor of magical mischief, George Weasley, and she had absolutely no bloody idea what to do about it. "Oh," she said simply, her voice stunned. "You are?" When Angelina buried her face in her hands, Alicia quickly amended, "I suppose you are. Is this necessarily a bad thing?"

Without further ado, Angelina launched into all her fears and insecurities and suspicions of a creepy fetish, which Alicia listened to with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Well?" Angelina asked when she had finished. "Have I managed to make another enormous mess of my life?"

Alicia looked deeply considering. "I really don't think so. I just..." She pressed her lips together before going on, "You know I take you seriously -- all your concerns and whatnot, so please don't take this the wrong way. But I think you're...well, wrong."

"You don't need to break it to me gently," Angelina said sarcastically.

"No, seriously. How long have you and George been seeing each other?"

"We're not _seeing each other_ --"

"You know what I mean."

"Since May, I guess."

"Alright." Alicia rolled her eyes a little, which Angelina pretended not to notice. "Think back, now -- have you ever found yourself comparing him to Fred?"

"Well, of _course_ --"

"As in, 'cor, Fred used to do that, I'm so glad George is the same way'."

Angelina raised her eyebrows. "I'm a bit offended that your imitation of me includes 'cor' in its vocabulary."

In an exasperated tone, Alicia asked, "What about my question?"

Drumming her fingers on her leg, Angelina was forced to admit, "No. I haven't."

Alicia tilted her head. "The thing is, Ange, it sort of makes sense that this would happen. Fred and George always had similar personalities. And if that's what you're attracted to...you see what I mean?"

"You're asking me to extrapolate from that statement? Alicia, you know what my state of mind has been like when it comes to the twins for the last five years."

With a slight smile, Alicia said, "It's not because he's like Fred, it's because both of them have qualities you're drawn to."

"That's a fine line."

"But it _is_ a line." Alicia actually looked _amused_, which Angelina wouldn't have tolerated from many other people. "You and the Weasley twins, Angelina. I never understood it. You put up with so much from them, and it never, ever put you off. I mean, you were annoyed at Fred half the time."

"Doesn't mean anything," Angelina said a bit wearily. "Anyway, he was _it_."

"I know he was," Alicia said sadly. "You have to move on, though. And it sounds like, for good or ill, you're moving on with George."

Angelina made a face. "That sounds lewd."

"Again, you know what I mean."

"But...I...it's..."

Alicia waited, one eyebrow quirked, while Angelina stuttered, and she finally pointed out, "You've no good reason not to give it a go."

"Maybe," Angelina conceded doubtfully.

"Do you love him or not?"

"Yes," she said meekly.

"Well, then," Alicia said, as if that settled everything.

"So I'm just supposed to not worry about it."

"That's right."

She chewed her lip. "Maybe you're right."

"I think I am."

"It sort of depends on George, though, don't you think?"

"A mere technicality," Alicia said unconcernedly.

Angelina couldn't help laughing. "I suppose I'll let you know how it goes next time I see my technicality."

Taking her hand, Alicia asked, "Feel a little better about it? You have to do what feels right to you. I mean, Oliver and me...that was easy. You, of course, had to go for something more complicated." She smiled a little. "I want to see you happy."

Angelina felt something swell in her chest, and for once, it had nothing to do with sadness. "Thanks, Alicia."

"I just expect to be your matron-of-honor," Alicia said innocently.

And with another week of wrestling with the idea, Angelina thought she might be ready to face George. Not that she was going to bring anything up with him. If she was going to do what felt right, then she was going to let things develop naturally. After all, she didn't know if he felt anything but friendship for her -- deep friendship, to be sure, but she couldn't ignore the possibility that that was all it was.

She didn't see him again until four days before Valentine's Day. Ran into him, actually, and literally, because she slipped on a patch of ice in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes just as he was stepping outside.

She careened towards him, but he caught her easily, looking surprised (not unpleasantly so). "Hi," she said a bit breathlessly. His arms had gone, automatically, it almost seemed, around her waist.

"Hey," he replied, and then suddenly, inexplicably, looked stricken. "I...um, I have to talk to you, I think."

"Okay," she said, feeling uneasy. His face was strained as he invited her in and brought her upstairs, and for a minute, he kept his back to her. It hadn't really occurred to her how well she could read him, but his body language was as apparent to her as though he'd spoken his feelings out loud. His shoulders were tensed and his neck was tight, and she wondered what was wrong. She had a sneaking suspicion she was about to find out.

Crossing her arms over her chest (in a gesture that could be construed as slightly protective), Angelina said hesitantly, "George...?"

He turned, though he refused to meet her eyes. "I can't do this," he finally said.

"This?"

For a second, he seemed to teeter on the brink of something, but then, it was as if he took a step back and strengthened his resolve. "Whatever's...going on between us. I just can't."

Angelina didn't say anything. It was a combination of not knowing _what_ to say and feeling that if she opened her mouth, she might be sick.

"And..." He put a hand to his neck, still keeping his eyes averted from hers. "I don't want...I mean, you've..." But that line of thinking, or at least, trying to articulate it, only seemed to frustrate him, and he muttered, "This is impossible."

"George," she finally forced out. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She did, of course -- vaguely -- but some masochistic part of her wanted to hear him say it outright.

Swiftly, he crossed the room and grabbed her hand tightly. She entwined her fingers in his, even though something in her hurt already. It was inevitable that this brief moment was going to be torn apart. "You're brilliant, Ange," he said in an anguished voice. "You're...you're the best; the most incredible woman I've ever..."

He trailed off, and Angelina smiled a little, despite the growing ache in her chest, saying softly, "Panegyric like that can't possibly precede something good."

"Depends," he said, just as softly. "You're smarter than me, so you've probably not gotten yourself into the mess I have."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," she replied, attempting to keep her tone light. "Best tell me what you wanted to say." No need to forestall it.

He met her eyes and quickly drew his hand away from hers. "You would've been my sister-in-law," he said, and his tone was carefully flat, though Angelina could hear the current of emotion raging beneath his words. "And I...it feels like...a betrayal. To Fred."

She swallowed and asked in what she hoped was an unwavering voice, "_What's_ a betrayal?"

"Don't you know?" he responded, his gaze riveted on his trainers.

"No." Maybe, a detached part of her mind thought, it was a _sado_masochistic streak, not just masochistic.

"That might be better."

Angelina grabbed his wrist. "George," she said, her voice shaking just a little. "You can't say that and then just leave it."

"I could."

"Don't, then."

Furrowing his brow, he finally said, haltingly, "I...think about you. Too much. And you mean more to me than you should."

"Oh," she exhaled, releasing his wrist as an afterthought. "So...that's it, then?"

"That's it," George agreed, still in that curiously flat tone.

She nodded, curtly, because she was afraid to show any more emotion. "Pity," was all she offered, and he surprised her by glancing up at her quickly. Taking a few steps back and towards the door, she said, "See you."

"Yeah," he said miserably. "Right."

Angelina turned and walked determinedly outside, before he got the chance to see how badly the exchange had hurt her. Oh, they had excellent timing, the two of them. It figured that just when she realised she was ready to take the plunge, he decided that he couldn't. And why? She hated to claim that she knew how Fred would have thought better than his own twin, but she reckoned that she'd known Fred pretty well, and she doubted he'd give a damn if George and her...well. She imagined that he'd rather she was with his brother than with someone like her ex-husband.

She stopped in her hurried walk up Diagon Alley and leaned against a building. Fred's death had set a number of mistakes in motion in her life, and her marriage was near the top of her list of regrets. Douglas Glass, his name had been, and she was grateful she'd kept her own. They'd met at an after-party for a game, and she'd been impressed by his intelligence and worldliness, and the fact that he didn't tell her that she was going to get herself in trouble or killed with her partying. Within a month, they were married, and within another, she was wondering what she'd been thinking. He didn't seem to mind that she was still in love with a dead man and that she moaned Fred's name in her sleep. But he was much older than her, and he liked having a twenty-one-year-old on his arm and in his bed, and when she'd demanded a divorce after three months, he'd offered her plenty to convince her to stay. The problem was, she'd told him in a hard voice, he couldn't give her Fred Weasley, and that was all she'd wanted.

She rubbed her eyes because she felt like she might start crying. Then, she couldn't imagine ever being in love again. Now, she couldn't imagine her life without George in it, and that scared her a little, and she hadn't wanted someone so much since Fred, but it didn't matter because George had turned...honourable, in a way, she supposed, and he was stubborn -- maybe not as stubborn as Fred had been, but close -- and she didn't know if it made her feel better or worse that he felt something for her, too.

Perhaps, and it was a slim hope, he needed time to think, like she had, and this wasn't the end. It was hard to imagine, unfortunately. There had been too much finality in his voice.

Angelina sighed. She would tell Alicia about this in a day or two, by which time it hopefully wouldn't feel as though a knife was being twisted into her stomach.

Life, she was told, _did_ go on.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed this! This is the end of this particular story, but I've come to love G/A almost as much as F/A, and so I will definitely be writing more about them.

7

"Are you ready maybe, are you willing to run? Are you ready to let yourself drown? Are you holding your breath, are you ready or not?" -- Texas, "Put Your Arms Around Me"

The changing rooms were dark when Angelina arrived, wringing the leavings of a March rain shower out of her hair, and for a minute, she stood, with the lights off, enjoying the silence. There was something magical about getting to the stadium before everyone else, something about the way the air smelled and the fact that she was the first to breathe it that day, and the promise of being airborne soon.

She slowly changed out of her clothes and into her Quidditch robes. A month had passed since she'd seen George, and she was impressed with how she'd handled herself -- no drinking, mostly, which meant she was unlikely to engage in other activities. But she'd spent the better part of five years pining for someone she could never have, and she didn't want to start that all over again, especially for someone whom she could see in an instant.

Sometimes she wondered why she didn't just go speak with George. Not to try to talk him out of his decision, necessarily, but just to look at him, say something, anything to him. Pride, she supposed, held her back. And it was stupid, she knew that. But then again, she wasn't going to beg or cry that she wanted to be with him. Either he wanted her or he didn't, and he could come find her and make things different.

Just as she finished strapping on her guards, Mehreen Khan sailed in, with Octavia Hughes on her heels. Neither the Beater nor the Keeper (respectively) seemed surprised to find Angelina there.

"Hey," Mehreen said cheerfully. "Good weekend?"

"Not bad. Yours?"

"Octavia dragged me to some club. A few cute blokes, but nothing too exciting. And none as handsome as your red-haired admirer." Mehreen waggled her eyebrows ridiculously and Angelina laughed.

"What a whinger," Octavia said in a stage-whisper, which Mehreen responded to by chucking a shin guard at her.

"Well, I'm glad you two enjoyed yourselves," Angelina said. "I stayed in and educated myself on the uses of Murtlap tentacles in cooking."

"Sounds fascinating."

"You need to find yourself a man, Johnson," Mehreen offered sagely. "Liven your Saturday nights up a bit."

"And Sunday mornings," Octavia added fairly.

Angelina pretended to be scandalised. "What a load of rude insinuations!"

With a cheeky grin, Mehreen said, "While we're on the subject, what's happened to your admirer? I haven't seen him waiting for you lately."

"No," Angelina said in an attempt at an offhand tone, "Nor have I."

"Not livening up _any_ of your nights, then?"

"Definitely not."

The Team Captain, Theodosia Kostas, came in with Aodheen at that moment, and the former barked at them (in a not entirely serious fashion, but still) to stop chattering and get changed. They hastened to do so and joined their male teammates on the pitch, but as they walked outside, Aodheen fell into step beside Angelina and said, "Talking of your admirer, I saw him come in."

"What?" Angelina practically yelped.

Aodheen grinned. "Check the stands."

Sure enough, there he was, sitting about halfway up with his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. She didn't give him any indication that she'd spotted him, nor he her, and he was much too far away for her to make out his expression. Her stomach twisted immediately into knots as she imagined what he had to say to her. For some reason, she wasn't necessarily convinced she was going to like it.

For the first ten minutes of practice, she found his presence so distracting that she flew rather badly, dropped the Quaffle several times, and nearly got hit in the face by a Bludger from the team's other Beater, Benjamin Gale, who yelled an apology at her. After she felt the iron ball brush past her ear, she wrenched herself into concentrating on Quidditch, not what George Weasley was thinking, which would not help her one bit if she lost her place on the team.

After that, she wasn't exactly brilliant, but she did pull off what she thought was an excellent double reverse pass while coming out of a roll, so the day's training wasn't a complete loss.

When Theodosia's whistle sounded several hours later, the team landed on the pitch. Angelina nearly followed them back inside to the changing rooms, unsure, at this last moment of decision, if she even wanted to face George. But then, her pesky subconscious demanded, _Have you or have you not faced torture and death at the hands of Death Eaters? This is nothing, and you're not a coward, even if you like to pretend you are_.

With a deep sigh, she mounted her broom again and zipped up the stands to where George was sitting.

He stood up at her approach, a cautious smile on his face. "Hi," he said when she landed and planted her broomstick on the bench.

"Hi," she returned, keeping her voice casual. "Why aren't you at the shop?"

George stuck his hands in his pockets. "Ron's there today. I told him I had something important to do."

"Oh? What's that?"

He looked her directly in the eye, and she didn't know if she was grateful for this or not. There was a determined glint in his gaze that she hadn't an inkling about the meaning of. She just hoped he wouldn't cause a scene in front of her teammates. Come to that, maybe that should have occurred to her before she decided to speak to him in full view of them.

Clearing his throat, George told her, "I wanted to apologise. For the things I said to you." She must have looked blank, because he clarified, "When I saw you last."

In fact, if she looked blank, it was because this was the last thing she wanted to hear. An _apology_? Was he joking? She wanted this weird state of romantic limbo to end, either in a declaration of his undying devotion to her (extreme, maybe, but obviously preferable) or a denial of any feelings altogether.

She furrowed her brow. "Oh. George, that's fine. I'm not...angry at you, or anything."

"Well, I'm glad for that."

"Did you think I was?"

"I was a git to you, why shouldn't you be angry? No warning or anything, I just spewed all of that at you."

Against her will, she giggled a little -- so he was sure to pick up on her nervousness, because she didn't giggle at any other time -- and said, "That's a lovely way of putting it."

"Appropriate, though."

"Definitely," she replied, raising an eyebrow.

"So, I'm sorry. I was..." He hesitated. "...out of order, at the very least."

Angelina sobered quickly. For a second, things had seemed normal between them again, but now they were back to awkwardness. "I don't need an apology. There's nothing to apologise for. That's the way you feel, and I'm an adult, I can handle it."

"I think you're missing the point --"

Annoyance flared within her. It was one thing for him to give her a meaningless apology, but it was quite another for him to condescend to her. So she was missing the point, was she?

"Don't you dare," she interrupted sharply, glaring at him. He looked as though he'd been slapped. "Do _not_ patronise me, George, or treat me like a child, or pretend that this is somehow a misunderstanding that's just going to be cleared up. I'm not interested in playing games -- I _love_ you, for Merlin's sake!" She clamped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring. _That_ wasn't supposed to have come out.

"You...you do?" He sounded dazed and not necessarily pleased with her exclamation.

"Would I say it if it weren't true?" she responded brusquely.

He blinked and said weakly, "Angelina..."

She snapped her broom back up. "Leave it. I'll see you, George." Whirling, she stomped down the stands, shoulders set resolutely and robes fluttering from the suddenness of her departure. She refused to think about what had just happened or feel anything about it. She _especially_ didn't want to feel anything about it.

There was a sudden clamor behind her and before she had a chance to do anything, she felt George's hand gripping her arm. She prepared herself to say something biting as he turned her towards him and she looked into those wonderful, warm brown eyes of his.

But before she had a chance to make a sound, his lips were on hers and he was kissing her fiercely, and she was kissing him back and his arm was around her waist and her hands were on his shoulders, and she thwacked him in the side of the head with her broom (which she hadn't had time to even think about letting go of) but he didn't seem to care at all.

He pulled away and put his hands on either side of her face. "That," he said softly, "was what I came here to do. If you'll have me, of course. Because I love you, too."

"I was hoping to hear you say that," she said, fighting to keep her smile from becoming too idiotic looking (failing miserably, however).

A wide grin broke out on George's face, which she would have loved to look at longer, except she also felt that that first kiss had been far too short. She threw her arms around his neck exuberantly (dropping her broom in the process) and he wrapped his arms around her waist, and they bumped their faces together, which both of them laughed at and which prompted George to comment, "We obviously need more practice at this," and her agreement became a bit muffled as they kissed again, deeply and with every intention of savouring the moment -- several moments, really, it was hard to keep track of time with George's arms around her and his mouth on hers and their bodies pressed together and her stomach and head feeling distinctly and exhilaratingly like she was in a continuous barrel roll one hundred feet up in the air.

They were interrupted by shrill wolf whistles and whoops from the other side of the pitch, and they broke apart again to see half of the Ballycastle Bats standing there, setting up a raucous cry. Angelina laughed and waved cheerfully at them.

"Shall we give them a real show?" George asked, quirking an eyebrow and grinning crookedly.

She snorted. "It depends on what you mean."

"Well," he said, "I don't know about you, but I always imagined fireworks for moments like this." To her amusement, he pulled a handful of Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs out of his robes.

"You just happened to have those on you?" she asked, laughing.

"Best to be prepared for anything," he replied solemnly -- or at least, he would have done if he hadn't been grinning so broadly. "I thought if my stirring and heartfelt words didn't convince you, these might."

Then, he threw them into the air above the pitch and ignited them with his wand. They exploded into pin-wheeling bursts of bright colour, and at any other time she would have watched them with delight -- because no one did pyrotechnics quite like the Weasleys, after all -- but George was running his hands down her back insistently, and she turned to face him so they could continue where they'd left off.

Fireworks, she mused distantly, seemed to be the most auspicious and fitting beginning to life with George Weasley.


End file.
